Room Service
by Firestar9mm
Summary: “I’ll leave the comedy stylings to you from now on. I’ll shoot, you pun. Well, you can shoot too.” He’d chuckled, stroking her hair again. “How’s that sound?”


**Author's Introduction:**

This was an entry for a recent LJ prompt-contest (I love contests. I don't usually win anything, but I like to stretch my creativity any way I can and prompts are great for that sort of thing), but I felt that it shouldn't be like the bridesmaid's dress I spent the evening trying on and picking up—I should wear it more than once. (*smiles.*) What do you think?

Big thanks to Cloudwalker, who kept reminding me about the color-changing camisole.

I bet this looks better than the bridesmaid's dress. At least, I hope it does. At this point I'm figuring anything would.

**

**Room Service**

_A Resident Evil/Biohazard prompt fic by Firestar9mm_

**

_And we couldn't bring the columns down, we couldn't destroy a single one_

_And the history books forgot about us and the Bible didn't mention us_

_Not even once_

_You are my sweetest downfall, I loved you first_

**(**_**Samson**_**, Regina Spektor)**

**

_In his dream, she hardly weighs anything at all. But still, she slips precariously in his grasp, the darkness yawning below her, ready to steal her._

"_Ada," he calls, fighting to keep his grip. "Give me your other hand!"_

_Earlier that night, she'd refused. She'd told him to let her go, and every second she had seemed to weigh more and more, not only slipping from his hands but threatening to drag him down with her. _

_Now, she fights. She tries desperately to pull herself up, and he stretches his other arm down, reaching for her, their fingers brushing as she tries to give him her other hand._

"_That's it, just hang on, honey, give me your other hand," Leon pleaded. "I've got you, I've got you…"_

_But when she turns her frightened face up to him, it isn't dark sloe eyes that plead with him to help her. They are the color of the empty gun on the catwalk he stands on, and a tail of red hair swings heavily behind her, blazing against the darkness below._

"_Save me, Leon," Claire pleads. "Don't let go. Don't let me go."_

_And he squeezes her hand as tightly as he can. "I've got you. I've got you."_

**

"I've got you," Leon Scott Kennedy murmured, turning restlessly in an uncomfortable motel bed. "I've got you, Claire…"

Moving in the darkness, he turned his head and scented wildflowers, something soft and damp brushing his cheek. Distracted by a pretty scent that had no place in the cold, heartless Umbrella labs he dreamt of, he stirred, eyes coming open slowly to take in his surroundings.

He was not in the Umbrella labs. The motel sheets were scratchy against his bare chest, but the damp tail of hair against his cheek was soft.

Claire's hair. She lay in his arms, gilded by the moonlight that spilled through the open window. He reflected that he should have closed it; her hair was wet and the night was chilly, but she'd been so stuck on having it open, closing her eyes to better feel the clean-smelling breeze on her face. Her expression had been so fragile that he'd left the window alone, letting the cheap curtains roll in like surf as they slept.

Leon fought to clear his head, memories rewinding and replaying in his sleepy brain—his escape from Raccoon City with Claire Redfield and little Sherry Birkin. His stomach flipped in protest of the greasy fast-food cheeseburger he'd inhaled before they'd even pulled all the way out of the drive-thru; the trip through a local Wal-Mart was a similar high-speed blur. Claire had been looking over her shoulder the whole time, gunmetal eyes scanning the aisles like radar instead of paying attention to what she was tossing in their squeaky-wheeled cart—the cheap pink camisole she was wearing was tight on her and the black cotton shorts were minuscule at best. He hadn't blamed her for being nervous; late night at a Super Wal-Mart, everyone in the place looked like a serial killer.

These memories strobed through his mind over the course of a single minute before reminding him that he was in the motel room they'd rented when both he and Claire were both far too exhausted to drive the car they'd stolen any longer.

It was obvious even from the street the place was a fleabag, but his shoulder had been throbbing so badly that his vision was starting to tinge red. Claire had switched places with him and valiantly attempted to continue driving, but her stormsky eyes had been blinking and her head lolling. The car that she'd hotwired—three days ago that would have shocked him; tonight it had impressed him—kept drifting between lanes, and they had been lucky there wasn't another soul on the road. When he'd seen the flickering motel sign, he'd instructed Claire to pull into the parking lot, and she had nodded sleepily, the last nod of her head taking far too long until she'd shaken awake once more.

The clerk had accepted cash, and if he'd noticed the blood and dirt they were covered in, he hadn't seemed to care. Claire had carried an already sleeping Sherry and stumbled down the hallway to the dingy, poorly lit room, depositing the little girl gently on the single large bed.

Leon had insisted that Claire sleep against the wall, beside the window, with Sherry between them. He knew it wouldn't be much, but he wanted anything coming through the door to have to deal with him first. If Claire understood his reasoning, she didn't let on. She had taken the last shower by her own choice, making sure there was always someone to stand guard while Leon and Sherry cleaned up. Despite the exhaustion that constricted his veins and dragged his eyelids down with every breath, Leon forced himself to stay awake, listening to the change in water as it pelted first against tile and then against bare skin before halting entirely. He'd waited until Claire emerged from the tiny bathroom in a cloud of steam, tying her wet hair behind her. She'd crawled slowly into bed, looking just as exhausted as he felt, and curled up in a pool of moonlight, closing her eyes.

Leon's chest had tightened. She looked about sixteen. He knew she was older; couldn't remember exactly how old off the top of his head, but a night of terror, pain and exhaustion had ripped years from her already young face. He wanted to pack her in bubble-wrap, tuck tissue paper around her and smuggle her away, someplace safe where nothing could ever hurt or scare her again.

Reaching over Sherry, Leon had brushed Claire's bangs away from her closed eyes. The full lips had curved into a sleepy smile.

"Don't go thinking you can take advantage of me because I'm traumatized and vulnerable," she'd murmured. One gunmetal eye opened and closed in a wink.

Leon had to chuckle. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Claire had yawned, wrinkling her nose. "Can't you take a joke?"

"Apparently not." Her bangs fell across her eyes and he'd stroked them back again, watching them fall and smoothing them away over and over, a constant reason to touch her.

"Come on. You were pretty funny when you blew up the giant alligator."

He'd snickered. "You didn't like my 'later gator' joke?"

She'd laughed softly, eyes still closed. "Congratulations, rookie. You are officially one bad motherfucker."

Leon had smiled. "I'll leave the comedy stylings to you from now on. I'll shoot, you pun. Well, you can shoot too." He'd chuckled, stroking her hair again. "How's that sound?"

Her voice had been distant, just this side of slumber. "You've got yourself a deal." Reaching up to take his hand from her hair, she'd curled her fingers around his and squeezed.

Leon had squeezed back, keeping his hold on her hand even after her grip had slackened. They'd fallen asleep that way, hands clasped together, and Leon had known nothing more until his nightmares had woken him from a restless sleep.

**

Now he was unable to sleep anymore, eyes burning from exhaustion, every nerve snapping as he relived the agonizing trip out of the city over and over—asleep, awake, it made no difference. He retraced every step, every terrified minute, wondering, always wondering what could have been done differently. Wondering whether any of it had actually even happened.

Claire nuzzled his bicep. She'd moved closer to him during the night, and Leon was immediately comforted by the reality of her. Trying to relax, he circled an arm protectively around her, feeling her warmth and reminding himself that she was alive and safe, but the sound of her breathing changed as soon as he touched her, becoming shallow and shuddery.

"No," she whispered, tossing her head from side to side, ponytail blazing against the pale moonlight. "Not me. Please. Not me."

"Claire," he answered, shaking her softly. "What's wrong?"

"Leave her." She sounded so upset. "She's dead. Leave her…"

"Claire," he whispered. "It's all right—"

"Let _go_." She twisted away from him, one hand balling into a fist and striking the wall she slept against. The impact jarred her from her nightmare and she sat bolt upright, clutching at her hand and hissing in air through clenched teeth. "Rrrrrrrgh," she growled, eyes squeezing tightly shut against the pain.

"It's okay," Leon assured her softly. "Claire, it's okay. You're safe."

"A nightmare," she gasped, blinking dazedly and shaking out her injured hand. "Had a nightm…"

She trailed off mid-sentence, her eyes widening at the sight of the rumpled sheets next to Leon. "Sherry!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "Where's—"

Leon could have kicked himself. He'd been so preoccupied with his own insomnia that he hadn't even noticed the little girl was gone.

Leon reached for Claire and came up with nothing, the sensation of being seconds too late sickening him as she bolted for the only other place in the room, the small bathroom. Leon yanked the nightstand drawer out, looking for the Desert Eagle he'd taken with him from the precinct, but he needn't have hurried—he ran right into Claire, who'd stopped short in the bathroom doorway.

Looking over Claire's shoulder, Leon saw Sherry curled up nearly into a fetal position in the bathtub, a pillow tucked behind her blonde head and one of the sheets twisted around her. She was asleep, her breathing deep and even; a peaceful little smile could be seen on her face in the dim, friendly glow of the small night-light that was plugged into the wall outlet.

Claire sagged against Leon in the doorway, tense, her breath loud and ragged in the silence.

"It's the light," he whispered soothingly, hugging her to him and stroking her damp tail of hair. "She wanted the light. She's okay. She's okay."

"We should take her back inside," Claire said, her voice still high-pitched with fear.

Leon shook his head, shepherding the redhead away from the bathroom doorway. "No. Leave her. She's sleeping."

Claire struggled half-heartedly, craning her neck to keep an eye on Sherry. "I don't want her to be alone…"

"She came in here to feel safe. We shouldn't disturb her," Leon coaxed. "We'll hear her if she cries, I promise."

Claire let him lead her back to the bed, but she didn't look happy. Sitting up, she fished in one of the Wal-Mart bags and came up with a pack of cigarettes. Ripping the plastic off the box and tossing it carelessly aside, she held the box out to him. "Want one?"

"Nah," he said, watching her flick her Zippo, her face haloed in the weak light of the flame. It was too dark to see, but Leon knew there was a S.T.A.R.S. insignia etched into the lighter. Claire's brother had given it to her. Leon was becoming very curious about Chris Redfield—Claire made it sound like her brother had hung the moon; he was obviously her hero.

Leaning over her lap, Leon pulled open the drawer of their rickety nightstand. It stuck. A sharp tug forced it open but put him off balance, causing him to lean heavily onto Claire's legs. Quickly, he reached past the old King James Bible in the drawer and came up with an ashtray. Patting Claire's leg, he handed it to her. "Here, use this. The last thing we need is to set these cheap sheets on fire."

Claire chuckled softly, accepting the ashtray with a shaky hand.

Leon leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs out, sleepy eyes on her. She rolled onto her stomach, the thin pink camisole she'd bought earlier riding up, exposing the indentation of her spine—and a bandage fastened above her hip, peeking out of the black cotton shorts she was wearing. They were about the size of a personals ad, sadly emphasizing the healing cuts on her long legs. There was something dangerous about the way she was lounging on the sagging motel bed, rolling onto her side as she took another drag, haloing herself in smoke. Leon's gaze settled on the smooth sliver of exposed stomach between her shorts and her camisole, on the curve of her hip. She pursed her full lips, lashes drooping, smoke trickling from her lips as she exhaled slowly, and Leon's chest tightened. Ever since he'd first met those wild, wild eyes in a dimly lit diner, he'd been torn between admiration and pity for this woman—not even a woman, barely more than a girl—whose life had been shredded beyond repair before it had even really begun.

What was left for her now? What if she never found her brother? Leon was not about to bring it up, but he was painfully aware—and he was sure Claire was too—that just because he hadn't been one of the corpses running around Raccoon City did not mean that Chris Redfield was alive. Claire had mentioned that her brother was her only family. If he was truly dead, she had no one. He couldn't remember if she'd mentioned where she'd come from. He didn't know where she lived, if she went to college, had a job. Even if she had, how could she ever return to it after tonight? After seeing what she'd seen, knowing what she knew?

If she woke in the night from terror-filled dreams tomorrow, in two weeks, five months from now, who would be there to comfort her? No one left, no one to hold her, no one to whisper in her ear that everything would be all right, no one to change her bandages. He could count three visible ones immediately, arm, hip, chest, blood soaking through them in small patches, and he hated how she seemed so used to them already, not scratching or pulling at them. She seemed completely at home in her bruised and torn skin, long legs stretching to forever, eyes sleepy and distant.

How could she _not_ be damaged?

"On second thought, yeah, can I have one of those?"

Claire offered him the pack, then her lighter. They smoked in silence for a while, passing the ashtray back and forth, till Claire asked, "So?"

"So, what?" Leon said, flicking ash into the tray.

"So what was your nightmare about?" Claire said.

Oh.

Thinking quickly, Leon decided against telling her it was about her about to drop to her death. Not only was he pretty sure she wouldn't enjoy the idea of falling to her doom, his gut was telling him she wouldn't enjoy being confused with Ada Wong either.

He had managed not to tell Claire a lot about Ada. He didn't really want to talk about it anyway; his chest was tight remembering what a mess it had been right from the start, his own feelings of confusion and worthlessness escalating till it had ended in blood and death. Despite everything that Ada Wong had done, all the people she'd hurt and lied to, himself included, Leon had wanted to save her. He couldn't help but feel like he'd failed her.

And maybe that was the only way it could have ended. But he'd never know now.

"I see," Claire murmured, smoke streaming from her nostrils.

Leon's brows met, puzzled, till he realized his silence had been an answer in itself. She obviously had more of an idea about Ada than he'd realized, except she didn't know his dream had really been…

…Oh, damn.

"Sorry," he muttered, sticking with his original decision not to tell Claire his nightmare had involved losing her as well. "I…"

"_I'm_ sorry," she interrupted. "I shouldn't have asked. It was…rude." She lit another cigarette. "I'm sorry."

"Make it up to me," he suggested, happy to change the subject. "What was yours about?"

Her face crumpled and she took a fierce drag, the end of her cigarette burning like a star in the dark room. "Taxidermy."

Leon almost laughed. It _would_ have been funny if the stingy moonlight hadn't reflected off tear tracks on her pretty face. "Like, stuffed animals?"

Claire snorted. "Stuffed animals are the things a boy wins you at a carnival shooting gallery. These were…birds of prey….a weasel…a big…_cheetah_…"

"Cheetah?" Leon arched a brow. "Like, runs real fast?"

"This one wasn't running anywhere anymore. It was stuffed and mounted." Even that seemed to bother her; her eyes were distant, as if she were imagining the cheetah running free. Leon fought a smile; despite the wounds that striped her skin, her heart was the bloodiest part of her.

"What a way to go," Leon remarked.

"It's not easy being…_cheesy_," Claire quipped, taking another drag on her cigarette.

Unable to hold back anymore, Leon snickered. "Congratulations, Redfield. You are officially one bad motherfucker."

But Claire didn't laugh. "No, I'm not. I couldn't save that girl."

_She's dead_, Claire had said as she struggled with her nightmare. _Leave her_.

"What girl?" he asked gently.

Claire rubbed her forehead, leaning her elbows on her bent knees. "The mayor's daughter. She…" Her face crumpled and she inhaled through her nose, trying to steady herself. "She was my age."

_Was _her age. "What happened?" Leon asked. "Zombies?"

Claire's brows disappeared into her bangs. Her expression was distant, and Leon knew she was replaying what had happened behind them. "She should have been so lucky."

Leon sighed, leaning back against the wall. "I don't even know what 'lucky' is anymore."

Claire stubbed out her cigarette. "This girl definitely wasn't. Chief Irons gunned her down in the precinct."

Leon started. "You _saw_ that?"

Claire shook her head. "No, I read it. The stupid bastard wrote about wanting to in his journal, along with a whole bunch of other crazed shit about hunting and gunning down the other survivors. He was on the take, you know. Umbrella. He sure was pissed about the outbreak."

"Take a number," Leon snorted.

Claire almost smiled, but it faded quickly. "She was laying on his desk, dead. There was so much blood, but it was…wrong."

"Wrong how?" Leon couldn't think of an instance this evening when blood had been right.

"Too much on one side," Claire explained matter-of-factly. "She had on a pretty white dress, and there was _so _much blood on one side. The chief said a monster got her."

"But you knew he was lying," Leon said, as though he were questioning a witness.

Claire pursed her lips. "Well, no, not really. A monster did get her. It just wasn't a zombie." Her eyes were wet. "He said she was attacked by something, but I knew what really happened. There was no blood on her face, or her neck. No scratches on her arms, no spatter in her hair. No defensive wounds whatsoever. She bled only on the one side, all from one point of impact. He had to have shot her."

Oddly, Leon admired her almost clinical assessment of the dead girl's wounds—young biker chicks didn't use words like _defensive wounds_ and _blood spatter_, but they rolled naturally off her tongue, her jaded eyes never wavering from the middle distance she stared into.

Leon hadn't seen the corpse of the mayor's daughter himself, but he could picture it in his mind just from listening to Claire describe it. And she was most likely right—that victim had been killed by a human, not a monster. Claire had been instantly suspicious of Irons, and that was probably what had kept her alive.

Leon's nose wrinkled, absently wishing he'd been that suspicious of the characters _he'd_ been running around with all night.

But Claire was talking again. "He shot her in the side. That's not a kill shot." She looked briefly disgusted, the most emotion she'd shown since beginning her ghastly tale. "There are plenty of places you can shoot someone that won't kill or won't kill quickly. She bled out, and it was slow." The brightness of her momentary rage faded, her face graying into shell-shock once again. "It must have felt like forever to her."

Leon wanted to console her, but there was nothing to say. If Claire was right—and she had given this a lot of thought—then the girl had suffered, and for a long time. There was nothing he could say to make her feel better about that.

"I know he watched her. She was in pain, and he watched." Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "He wouldn't shut up about how beautiful she was, and what a tragedy it would be when she turned and her skin putrefied and she…" She took a shaky breath. "And then when I found the journal I knew. He wanted to stuff her like the animals, keep her perfect…forever." She shuddered, then visibly attempted to collect herself. Leon wanted to hold her.

She shrugged. "The journal's in my side pack, as if that matters. It'll never see the inside of a courtroom. Can't prosecute a dead man."

"If he's dead, maybe justice is served, all the same." Leon had no idea what else to say.

Claire gave him a withering look. "He wrote down everything he did to them. He shot his ex-partner in the _back_. He hunted that girl and he was going to _stuff_ her, just like the cheetah. He wanted to _keep_ her. And the way he was looking at me…" She shuddered again. "I should have just shot him." Turning wide, horrified eyes to him, she whispered, "I thought about it."

Leon felt a shiver pass through his own body, imagining a maniacal pervert's gaze roaming over Claire. "Can't say as I blame you."

"Doesn't matter," Claire muttered. "I didn't get the chance. The thing in the sewer beat me to it, then spit the bastard's corpse back up the trapdoor." Leaning in close, she whispered, "I kicked the body before I climbed down the trapdoor into the sewer. Was that okay?"

Despite the horrific bedtime story she'd just told him, Leon felt a grin chasing across his face. "Good girl."

"Fuckin' pervert," Claire muttered, sighing. "I wish I could have helped that girl."

"There was nothing you could have done," Leon soothed, knowing even as he spoke that the words were hollow comfort.

"I know that."

"It's not your fault."

"I know." She pushed her bangs up her forehead. "Then why do I feel so guilty? We were the same age. I got to live and she didn't. Why? What makes me special?"

"C'mere." He shifted his weight, pulling her close, and she went willingly into the embrace, careful of his bandage.

"What happened to my life?" she asked as he rocked her. "One minute I'm like, 'uh oh, pop quiz'. Next thing I know, I'm cowering in a corner from zombies and gun-toting maniacs, feeling stupid for dying a virgin."

Leon stroked her damp ponytail. "Stop talking like that. You're not going to die."

She squeezed him tight, snuggling into his good shoulder as if she wanted to crawl through him. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

He nuzzled her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of the cheap conditioner she'd bought at the Wal-Mart. "Is it working?"

"Yeah." She turned her head, pressing her cheek against his bare shoulder. "It is, actually. Can you say it again?"

Loosening his hold on her, Leon tipped her chin up gently, urging her to meet his gaze. "Claire. Listen to me very carefully." Her eyes were shining with unshed tears; Leon felt echoes of his dream tugging at him, that fevered gaze pleading with him not to let her down. "We're in this together. That makes you my partner, and no one's going to hurt you, not while I'm around." He brushed her bangs away from the shining eyes, stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "I've got your six, Claire, always. I'd fight to the death to protect you."

She took a shuddery breath. "Promise?"

"I swear it."

Claire's eyelashes drifted to half-mast, and Leon felt as helpless as she looked; she leaned in and touched her lips to his so gently that he let it happen, unable to form a coherent thought. It was such a soft kiss, her lips trembling against his, that his eyes had closed without his conscious control before he shook himself out of his daze.

"We should go back to sleep," he whispered hoarsely. "We're both exhausted."

Claire answered by cradling his face in her hands and backing him up against the wall, taking his mouth much more fiercely this time. Oxygen abandoned him as she sucked his lower lip between hers, tugging gently. He made a half-hearted effort to break free and it was worth it to have her follow and close her mouth hard over his once more. This time, he was unable to help himself, pressing his tongue against the seam of her lips, begging for entrance, caressing her own when she allowed it. She melted against his chest, trying to press herself as close as possible, and Leon let his arms settle around her, holding her close.

"I'm traumatized and vulnerable," Claire whispered, their breath mingling. "Want to take advantage of me?"

"No." It wasn't exactly a lie. What he wanted, suddenly and completely, involved mutual participation, not one party taking advantage of the other. "Go back to sleep." But he didn't sound convincing, didn't sound convinced. She wasn't the only one who was traumatized and vulnerable, and his arms were full of her, her warmth and softness and the strength that had carried her through the city of the dead. Temptation that hadn't existed two hours ago now seemed impossible to resist. "I want to go back to sleep. And I want you to go back to sleep."

"And I want a '97 Supra," Claire murmured, breath tickling his neck.

He chuckled, unable to help it. Damn her for knowing how to make him smile, even after knowing him less than seventy-two hours. "Go back to sleep, Claire."

She batted those long lashes at him, and he almost caved in. She was sweet and beautiful and apparently willing to lower her standards, and he suddenly wanted to dispel all her fears of dying untouched. He couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if a monster hadn't gotten Irons. Would it have been Claire bleeding all over a pretty white dress, the light fading from her eyes before a madman had his way with her?

He wanted to save her from that. Wasn't that what she was asking for? Shouldn't he keep his promise—keep her safe? He had failed Ada, but…

"You can call me her name," Claire breathed. "Anything you want."

That was like a shock of cold water to his entire system. "I would never do that," he growled, more ferociously than he'd meant to. Claire blinked, startled—she couldn't have known how his dream had drawn a line in his mind between herself and Ada. "I would never pretend you were anything but what you are."

"Sorry," Claire murmured, admitting defeat, not with words, but with body language; she let her weight settle back on her heels, her eyes drooping in disappointment. "I didn't mean…"

Leon felt sorry for snapping at her, but he couldn't think straight; his nightmare still gnawing at him, his blood hissing with visions of exhausting her himself, bringing her over and over, tiring her out until she drifted into a safe, satisfied sleep in his arms. "It's okay."

She leaned in once more, brushing her lips against his cheek. "You're a good man."

Something broke inside Leon. He wasn't a good man. A good man wouldn't be lusting after a sweet girl, trying to justify it by telling himself he wanted to keep her safe from the things that wanted to tear her apart, from bad men who wanted to ruin her, to steal her away. "Go back to sleep, Claire. Everything's all right."

Slowly, she lay back down, but her eyes burned through the dark, hurt and confused. It seemed he waited forever for them to close, waited forever for her breathing to slow to the rhythm of sleep before he let out his own breath, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He'd been right to turn her down, he assured himself. Even if it had taken what little was left of his strength. Even if he felt just as lonely and scared and in need of comfort as she did. Even if he was thinking she was just about the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

Shaking his head, he reminded himself that he barely knew her. She was a complete stranger beyond good aim and steely confidence. He didn't know any of the things he considered most important about a woman—her birthday, her favorite song, the kind of cookies he should stash in a cabinet for when he needed to bribe or mollify her. All he knew was that she was brave as hell, good with a gun, liked double cheeseburgers, and smoked Marlboros. He knew she was boxing clever and as loyal as sunlight, dependable to a fault. She was caring—probably too caring, beneath the tough-as-nails exterior.

Leon wished he could stop staring at the exterior.

She sighed again through those full lips—dick-sucking lips, as his company sergeant in the Academy would have rudely described them—and shifted, another deep breath causing her breasts to strain against the tight camisole, nipples stiffening in the cool of the room, lifting the cloth away from her skin. She rolled onto her side to face him, lashes dark crescents on her cheek, long legs pressed together almost protectively.

Leon slid off the bed abruptly, yanking his pillow off the mattress and stretching out on the floor, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched in the loose-fitting pants he wore, trying to force all thoughts of her proposal out of his mind.

His last thought before he dropped back off to sleep was the dim realization that he was totally fucked.

**

_In the dream, he was back in the police station, being pursued by a giant alligator. Tearing down the hall, Leon forced his shoulder against a heavy wooden door, once, twice, three times before it opened, spilling him into another, narrower hallway. Getting to his feet like lightning, he slammed the door, locking it, knowing even as he did that a flimsy hasp would never stop the monster._

_But as soon as the lock secured, the noise outside abruptly stopped. No heavy crawling footsteps, no drag of a lizardlike body along tile. No snuffling breathing. Dead silence rang in his ears, as if the giant reptile had never been there at all._

_Refusing to take the momentary respite for granted, he leaned against the wall and took in his latest surroundings. His feet sank into the plush carpeted floor as he took a few hesitant steps forward. _

_The décor of the RPD precinct had baffled him from the start—high-tech with gothic, old with new—but this secluded wing was the strangest yet. The carpeting was dark, muted greens and large burgundy rosettes, the dark wood paneling adding to the somber atmosphere. Candles burned on the walls, the light reflected by heavy glass lanterns. A life-sized cheetah crouched against the wall, fangs bared in a hiss that would last forever. Birds of prey were frozen in flight near the ceiling and a mongoose was stopped mid-scamper across the floor. _

_He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all._

"_Leon," Claire sang from somewhere down the hall, cream-soda voice lilting dreamily. Leon's heart skipped hopefully at the sound—she was still alive!_

"_Claire?" he called, drawing his gun in case any nasty undead surprises jumped out from around the winding corners of the mazelike inner sanctum. "Where are you?"_

"_Leon."_

"_I'm here," he assured her, continuing down the narrow hallway. If she was in this little shop of horrors, he wanted to get her the hell out and continue on their way out of the city. "Where are you?"_

"_Here." She sounded so far away. "Leon, I'm here."_

_She sounded closer now; he quickened his pace to a jog. Rounding a corner, he saw her at the end of the hallway, her stormsky eyes lighting up when she saw him. _

"_Leon," she purred, extending her arms to him and leaning forward, tail of hair swinging heavily._

_But she didn't come any closer. She __**couldn't**__come any closer, because she was leaning out of the wall, where she was mounted, head, shoulders, all the way down to her narrow waist, slim pale arms reaching forever for an embrace that would never come. _

_Still she smiled. "Leon, can't you hear me?"_

"_Claire…" He swallowed. "Oh Claire, oh sweetheart…"_

_Her expression was heartbreaking. "I'm here, Leon. It's all right."_

_Drawing closer, Leon reached a shaking hand to touch her face. She nuzzled into the caress, eyes closing in contentment. _

"_Claire," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you died…"_

"_I'm not dead," she soothed, clasping his hand in her own and pressing it to her breast to feel her heartbeat. "Leon, feel that. I'm here. I'm not dead…"_

_Leon jerked his hand away from her as if she'd burned him, the horror of feeling that unnatural heartbeat too much for him to bear—she should have been cold, dead, but her skin was fever-warm and her color brilliant as she reached for him once more. _

"_Claire. Sweetheart." He shook his head helplessly. "If only there was something I could do."_

"_There is something," she said, a gentle hand cupping his cheek and urging him to look up at her. "Wake up."_

"_I don't understand," he murmured. _

"_Wake up," Claire whispered, stroking her knuckles down his cheek. "Wake up, Leon."_

**

"Wake up, Leon! Wake up."

Leon opened his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings. He was still on the floor, but now Claire was kneeling over him, clutching his hand. She was speaking softly, urgently, bright tail of hair brushing his chest as she leaned in close. She pressed his hand even more desperately against her chest and he felt the hammer of her heartbeat, stronger, faster than he'd felt it in his nightmare.

"Leon, I'm not dead. Can't you hear me? I'm here."

He took a shaky breath, blinking until the shadows above him resolved into her face. "Claire."

"That's it," she said, stroking his cheek. "Wake up, Leon. See? I'm here."

He sat up, and she braced her hands against his chest as if he'd been injured. "Slow, slow," she encouraged. "Take it easy."

"Did I wake you up?" he murmured, rubbing at his eyes to clear the last of the dream away. "Sorry. Nightmares again."

"You…you were calling my name. Are you all right?" She squinted. "What are you doing down here on the floor?" Taking his hands in hers, she got to her feet, trying to pull him up with her. "Must have been some dream for you to end up down here. Come back up to the bed, it's much more comfortable. Come on."

Leon pulled a face. Did she honestly think he'd fallen out of bed? Was she giving him an out or was she just incredibly naïve?

He allowed her to fuss over him, let her push him down to the bed and tuck the sheets around him. "Want some water?"

"Where's Sherry?" he asked, ignoring the question.

"Still in the tub." To his surprise, Claire laughed. "It's actually sort of cute. I keep checking on her, and she seems comfortable enough. Don't worry. Want water or not?"

"Not." He made a face. "The water out of that faucet tastes poisonous." Squinting, he glanced around the room, the red LCD display of the cheap desk clock bleeding down his blurred vision. "What time is it?"

"Three-thirty."

Rolling away from where she sat on the side of the bed like a nervous parent watching over her child, he groaned. "Three-thirty is a godforsaken time of night. I wish…" Midsentence, he realized he wasn't sure he should be admitting this to her. Finally, it came out in a mumble. "I wish the sun would come up."

A hand gently rubbed his shoulder, soft against his bare skin. "Me, too," she said lightly.

She kept stroking him, her movements slow and idle, and then she asked. "What happened to me?"

Rolling onto his back to look at her, he asked, "What?"

She blinked rapidly, looking uncomfortable. "You…you dreamt that I died."

He shook his head, deciding in an instant to lie just as he'd lied about his previous nightmare. "No, I didn't."

She frowned. "Yes, you did. You apologized to me. You said you were sorry I died. You called me…"

She didn't have to finish the sentence; Leon remembered what he'd called her.

"Just tell me how it happened," she concluded.

"It doesn't matter," he snapped, sitting up, covers pooling around his waist. "It's never going to happen. Do you hear me? _Never_. I'm not going to let it happen."

Her eyes were feverishly eager as she leaned in close. "Don't worry about scaring me, I'm not scared—"

"_I_ am," he shot back. "Okay? Want to hear me say it? I am scared. I am so scared that I no longer feel like sleeping. And I _definitely_ don't feel like talking about it. Okay?"

Once again, she seemed to shrink. "What can I do?" she asked, shaking her head helplessly.

The urge to shake her, to put his hands all over her and feel how real and warm she was, washed over him and he grit his teeth to push it back. "_Breathe_," he growled, thrusting his face close to hers. "_Stay alive_. That's what you can do—you can tell me you'll never die."

The sun did rise just then—three hours early, in the form of a smile spreading slowly across her face. "I promise."

He didn't smile back. "Are you naïve or just incredibly stupid? How on earth can you promise me something like that?"

The newly-risen sun of a smile refracted through the rain in his mind, resolving into a rainbow of a grin. "Easy. If I welsh, what are you going to do to me?"

Blinking dazedly, Leon said nothing for a few minutes, slowly realizing her logic.

Just like that, the tension was broken, and his frown turned mocking as he feathered his fingers against her ribs. "You are so going to get it."

She squeaked out a laugh, trying to crawl across the bed away from him, but he grabbed her around the waist and pinned her, rolling her over playfully and collapsing his weight atop her. Claire squirmed, fighting back until he grabbed her wrists and forced them down to the mattress.

Dimly, he realized that all his arguments with himself had been futile the entire time. It was far too late—the minute she'd taken his hand on that city street, she'd been his, and he had to kiss that smile.

Claire made a surprised sound against his mouth, but she responded fiercely, trying to break his grip on her wrists. Leon released one of her hands and she immediately slid it behind his neck, trying to press herself closer.

When he broke the kiss her eyes were twinkling. "Change of heart?"

"Change of mind," he corrected. "Heart always knew what it wanted." He touched his lips to hers again. "Want to take advantage of me?"

Instead of laughing at her own request turned on her, she looked suddenly bashful. "Um…I'm…it's…"

He nuzzled her soothingly, remembering her off-the-cuff remark about dying earlier. "I get it. It's okay."

Pushing him gently back, she gave him a wide-eyed look. "Okay? You're cool?"

He silenced her by pressing his mouth to hers. "Trust me. Just don't feel like you can't talk to me, all right?"

She nodded, eyes drifting to a dreamy half-mast. "Okay."

Arching a brow, he came to a late realization. "There was one thing we _didn't_ get at Wal-Mart…"

Claire laughed softly, knowing what he meant. "It's cool. I'm on the Pill." Her eyes softening, she added almost shyly, "Anyway, I don't want to feel a piece of rubber. Want to feel…you." Giving him a nervous look, she asked, "Does that make you want to stop?"

Boldly, he took her hand in his, pressing it to the bulge in his pants. "What gave you that idea?"

Claire needed very little encouragement; she cupped her hand around him, stroking him through the fabric till he purred. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "For me?"

Smiling, he answered her by taking her mouth fiercely. "If you want."

"Yes." She slid her hands up his chest as they kissed. "I want…"

Her expression was relaxed, but her body wasn't; he rolled up to a sitting positing and drew her into his arms, letting her straddle his lap so she'd feel less trapped before he set about alleviating her nervousness with slow kisses, hands learning her through the cheap, ill-fitting clothes she wore. He was careful to listen to every sharp breath, every tensing of her limbs, and it wasn't long before she was malleable in his embrace, mouth opening eagerly for his tongue.

Any reservations he had were all but forgotten as Claire rolled her hips against his, taking advantage of her position to press as close to him as she could. He hissed in a breath, clutching at her, fingertips slipping just inside the waistband of her cotton shorts. He knew she could feel him stretched hard and firm already, grinding against him with every circle of her hips.

Bracing his hands behind her back, he dipped her down to the mattress as if they were dancing. "Hey!" she giggled softly, fingertips brushing lightly against his arms, trailing down his chest. "What…?"

"Want you beneath me," he whispered back, voice thick with wanting. He pushed her cami up, savoring every inch of smooth skin his fingers quested over, and was pleased when she arched her back, offering her breasts to his eager hands. She bit her lower lip to hold back a whimper, writhing beneath his touch, and Leon bent his head to swirl his tongue around one stiffening nipple. Claire's fingers combed through his hair, her breathing quickening as she tried not to cry out.

Sliding back to a kneeling position over her, Leon slid his hands down her thighs. "How are you doing?"

Claire smiled, eyes hazy with passion. Reaching up, she toyed with the line of golden hair that began low on his stomach and disappeared into his pants. Not content to let her imagination take over, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants, tugging them down to mid-thigh. Her tongue darted out to lick at her top lip as she found what she wanted, dragging a slow fingertip along his erection before she curled her hand around the heavy silky testicles beneath. He groaned, drawing himself out of her seeking hands to strip. "Off," he ordered even as he hooked his hand into her waistband. Complete sentences wouldn't be possible again until he was soothed inside her.

Claire lifted herself to help him with her shorts, then struggled out of her cami, tossing it aside. The sight of her naked resulted in a momentary lapse of control; Leon clamped his hand around her ankle and pulled her down the mattress towards him, unable to wait any longer. Claire gasped as he slid atop her, one hand sliding up her thigh, and a soft, broken moan trickled from her lips as he slipped a finger inside her to ascertain her condition.

"Talk to me," he whispered. "Everything okay?"

"...good," she whispered haltingly. "Am I sssss…supposed to feel ssss…sssso good?"

"Just you wait," he murmured, adding a second finger and eliciting another gasp. "You haven't seen anything yet."

It was like having sex with the mute button on. Pressured by their surroundings to be quiet, she barely made a sound, but she telegraphed her pleasure to him loud and clear—soft whimpers, sharp gasps, tiny little breaths sounded against his ear. Hearing already impaired, the darkness of the room stole his sight as well; her nudity was something he was feeling more than seeing. Several times during their explorations of each other, he found himself closing his eyes, the better to concentrate on the fullness of her breasts in his hands as he lifted them to kiss beneath them, to feel her nipples harden against his palms before he soothed them with the heat of his mouth. She had trouble keeping quiet then, her fingers tangling in his hair as he supported his weight on one hand, the other stroking her inner thigh. The skin was wet, and the tightness of her body as he slipped a finger inside made his heart rate pick up.

It was enough to bring out the most wanton cruelty in a male heart—this beautiful girl, offering her body to him, overwhelmed by passion and need, eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy, wild tail of hair spread to one side of her, chest heaving with her rapid breaths, swollen lips parted, begging for a kiss. Unable to keep himself in check any longer, he locked his mouth fiercely to hers, hands sliding possessively over her, parting her thighs.

"I'm worried about your bandage," she whispered as he kissed a hot trail down her neck. Her nails scratched lightly at the dressing; she shuddered as his mouth found the sensitive hollow where her pulse beat at her throat.

"Don't be. S'okay," he murmured. "Hang on tight, sweetheart."

She nodded dazedly at him between kisses, as if she were afraid he'd change his mind even now, naked and entwined in a tiny motel bed with their clothes thrown haphazardly to the floor.

He'd meant it to tease her, to ease any nervousness she might have had about their coupling but the sensation of being filled for the first time elicited a sharp gasp and a rake of her nails down his back. Every muscle tensed as she clung to him, acclimating herself to the feel of him inside her. "Le-onnnn…" Her voice was high and thready, squeezed tight with pain and the attempt to keep quiet, and he winced.

"Stay with me, angel," he murmured, pressing his lips to whatever skin he could reach, trying to keep as still as possible. "Talk to me."

Her nails flexed against his shoulders. "S'okay….m'okay…please…"

"Keep talking, baby. Let me know…" He punctuated slow strokes with soft kisses, gauging her hesitant responses, and gradually she relaxed, curling her body around his as if she wanted to crawl through him, opening her mouth eagerly for his kiss.

"Oh," she sighed. "You're…so…" She trailed off, tilting her head up to kiss him fiercely and trying to match his increasing pace.

"That's it," he whispered hotly against her ear, the bite and sting of her nails as she clawed his back spurring him on. "Move against me, just like that."

God, it had been way too long since he'd been with a woman, and he'd never been with anyone so eager, so open in her reactions. Leon hated that they had to be so quiet—he'd never wanted to hear her more. He strained to hear her tiny moans and shuddering breaths, and he knew when she was close because she wrapped herself around him and whimpered his name, losing her rhythm completely in her passion and oh God _yes_, just this, nothing but this and her and soft skin and his fierce desire to show her with mouth and hands and body how she made him feel, to make her come and make her come again…

Claire couldn't hold herself in check as she shattered in his arms, crying out softly and shuddering with the force of her orgasm. The sound, the sight, the sensation of her pleasure at his hands was too much for Leon and he surrendered himself to her and the electricity that had been between them from the moment she'd first put her hand in his. It took everything he had not to set his teeth in her shoulder, his own voice escaping him in a growl. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing and the sound of a man and a woman well satisfied.

"Claire," he whispered against her ear, suddenly wanting her to know that he wasn't thinking of anyone but her right now. It was her that had stolen his breath and enslaved him effortlessly, the softness of her skin contrasting with the ferocity of her embrace, her demanding kiss. It was her he wanted, her he'd come for, her he wouldn't be able to get out of his mind. "Claire. Claire."

Her breath was shuddery, the aftershocks of her climax still shaking her as she clung to him. She nuzzled him, nails tracing absent patterns on his back.

"Thank y—" she began to murmur, and he cut her off, pressing his mouth to hers. He didn't want her to talk about it like it was a business transaction, not when she'd just been crying his name and writhing against him, her already tight body constricting even more around him in the most intimate embrace.

"Shhhh," he whispered between kisses, encouraging her to lay in his arms, bringing her head to his chest. She snuggled up close, giving him a squeeze.

Leon smiled at her, falling slowly asleep in his arms, still his. It was nice to be worn out from lovemaking and not from running for their lives. He nuzzled her hair, breathing in the scent of cheap wildflower conditioner and cigarette smoke and making sure she was comfortable in his embrace. Stroking her bangs out of her eyes, he made another silent promise to himself. One day, he'd have her in his arms like this again. They would make love, and they wouldn't have to worry about dying in the night or being quiet. He would take his time, show her exactly how she made him feel, and he'd hear that soft cream-soda voice crying out in ecstasy.

Claire stirred and snuggled up in her sleep, breath sighing outward. "Leon."

His chest ached with feelings he couldn't sort out. "Someday, sweetheart. I promise."

He tried to relax, closing his eyes and enjoying the precious few minutes she still belonged to him.

**

Nearly ten years later, that motel no longer existed—it had been razed to vapor along with Raccoon City and most of the surrounding area. But Leon Kennedy smiled as he pulled his car into the parking lot of a motel that looked just as dilapidated and seedy. Letters were missing from the sign, but you could still make out the idea of "vacancy".

In the passenger seat, his girlfriend wrinkled her nose. "_Why_ did you want to come here again?"

Shutting off the engine, Leon turned to smile at the redhead sitting beside him. "Indulge me."

Smirking at his caginess, Claire Redfield released her seatbelt and got out of the car, circling around the front to meet him. "Okay, but only if you carry me over the threshold."

His smile turned into a grin. "You've got yourself a deal."

**

**Author's Notes:**

_Resident Evil 2_ remains my favorite, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. I can't wait for _Darkside Chronicles_ to come out. One of the creators of _RE_ himself even says that he considers Chief Brian Irons of the R.P.D. to be the most monstrous of the human characters in the entire _Resident Evil_ universe. I'm inclined to agree, and I still remember the sick feeling I got when I first saw the mayor's daughter dead on that desk ten years ago. I'm actually surprised I haven't visited it in fiction sooner.

Well, just as Leon's proved to Claire, there's a first time for everything.

Now…the big question….continue working on the files I brought home, or write an _NCIS_ fanfic?

Hmm.


End file.
